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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152854">And We Dreamt of Far-Off Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlike/pseuds/catlike'>catlike</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stardust and Story Books (A Collection of Whouffle and Whouffaldi Fairy Tale Retelling One-Shots) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who, Doctor Who &amp; Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Rapunzel (Fairy Tale)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Rapunzel Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tangled (2010) Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Rapunzel Elements, Tangled (2010) References, all at once everything is different, and at lAST I SEE THE LIGHT, and it’s like the sky is new, now that i see you, whouffle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:41:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152854</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlike/pseuds/catlike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Locked away in a watch tower with neither stairs nor door, there is a girl, fated to stay inside, watching over Mother Rassilon’s archive, all the while dreaming of far-off stars and the world outside her tower and of the galaxy far beyond even that. </p><p>And then, one day, she catches a thief trying to steal a TARDIS.</p><p>(A Rapunzel retelling x Whouffle.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eleventh Doctor &amp; Clara Oswin Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, The Doctor &amp; Clara Oswin Oswald, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Clara Oswin Oswald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stardust and Story Books (A Collection of Whouffle and Whouffaldi Fairy Tale Retelling One-Shots) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And We Dreamt of Far-Off Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Suspended in the sky, threaded together by seventeen suns and a string of stars, lies Gallifrey. And on Gallifrey, beneath its burning orange sky and twin suns, there is a tower, with neither stairs nor door.</p><p>But it is not just any old tower. It is a Gallifreyan watch tower, built to look over the gated, twisting maze of archives containing the High Council’s relic collection. And in that tower, there is a girl, who has never once stepped outside. The job she was trained for since birth is far too precious, for she must stay and keep watch for intruders, standing guard over the labyrinth of sheds and shelves and boxes. Her job is to watch the world, not be part of it. </p><p>The duty of keeping watch over the archives - according to Mother Rassilon and the High Council, at least - is an honor. And the girl - Clara - is not allowed to leave her tower, nor cut her hair, for according to ancient custom, the length of her hair symbolizes her years of service to Gallifrey.</p><p>(And her hair is long, so, so long already. And each day it seems to Clara that her hair grows inches longer and the room walls grow smaller, and the tower gets far too tiny to try to contain her in.)</p><p>Of course, just because she can’t see the world doesn’t mean she doesn’t try to recreate it in her tower.</p><p>Inside, she has sixty-seven self-made mobiles hanging from her ceiling, mini galaxies hanging on strings, made of paper stars and painted planets. She also has a long silver spyglass (made for looking down at the archive and searching for intruders, but if Clara’s honest, she finds herself pointing it skywards and scanning the stars more often than not), an old guitar she never quite figured out how to play, and a whisk and a pan for making soufflés.</p><p>She also has exactly eleven books and she’s read them thousands and thousands and thousands of times. Her favorite one is a book called One-Hundred-and-Once Places to See, and on its cover is a sketched out galaxy embossed with bits of black and gold. And inside...inside lies the <i>universe</i>. It tells her of entire worlds made of water, of sparkling constellations strung together by stars and supernovas, of planet-wide festivals and colorful comets and where to go to see the best sunrise in all the universe. </p><p>But Clara’s favorite part is what can be found on page fourth-two, because on that page lies the meteor shower on the planet of Akhatan. The meteor shower happens only once every thousand years, and when the metallic meteors fall through Akhatan’s atmosphere, they turn into shooting stars that burst and burn into colorful flames in the dark night sky. They look, according to story from a local recorded by the author, like bright, floating paper lanterns, burning up from the inside out. Lantern Stars, they’re called, their beauty only seen once every thousand years, but talked about for eternity. </p><p>And the thing is, if Clara’s done the math right (and she’s had nothing but time to do the calculations and check them again and again), it’s the thousandth year, and the Lantern Stars will fall tomorrow. It’s a sight she’ll never get to see from where she’s trapped in her tower. </p><p>Oh, but she dreams. </p><p>She dreams of burning nebulas and roaring oceans, of lavender skies and diamond snowfall and so many wonders she knows just be out there. But most of all, she dreams about the Lantern Stars, and what it might be like to sit on Akhatan and stare up at the sky, watching them blaze brightly in the darkness.</p><p>So she pulls out her paper and uses the last bit of twine she has left in the tower to form origami Lantern Stars and hang them from her ceiling.</p><p>And she promises herself that one day she’ll get to see the real ones.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>It is early afternoon, the twin suns are bright and high, blazing over the outdoor archive and the Gallifreyan desert outside, and inside, Clara is pulling a carefully baked soufflé out of the oven. (Or, more accurately, she’s pulling out a burnt black soufflé.) And that’s when she gets a visitor.<p>“Clara,” a voice calls from outside her window, from somewhere down below. “Clara, let down the lift.”</p><p>Quickly, Clara tips her failed creation out of her soufflé pan and into the trash, and then hurries to the lift, turning the key and unlocking the failsafe, then lifting the levers and lowering it in a rush. </p><p>Slowly, the lift rises, and Mother Rassilon’s figure appears in the window, her silhouette casting a black shadow over the tower floor.</p><p>“Clara,” Mother Rassilon says, nodding as she sets down Clara’s monthly sack of supplies. “Anything to report?”</p><p>Clara stands at attention almost automatically, her spine straightening, posture stiffening. Mother Rassilon was a general, a member of the Gallifreyan High Council, and her deep red robes that fell to the floor and the golden headpiece she wore had a habit of reminding you exactly how much power she had.</p><p>“No break-ins,” Clara says. “Area’s secure. Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”</p><p>Mother Rassilon huffs out a breath through her nose and makes an, irritated sharp snapping sound with her tongue. “Must we do this every time I visit?”</p><p>“Yes,” Clara says immediately, because that’s the thing about her. She’s stubborn. So stubborn even Mother Rassilon, high-ranking Gallifreyan official, is resigned to having to listen to her.</p><p>“Clara, you are not getting out of service.”</p><p>“I <i>know</i> that,” Clara presses. “I know you need me in this watch tower. I know this was the job that was decided for me. And I’m not asking to leave it forever, just for a day.”</p><p>“Clara, a thousand Gallifreyans before you have grown up in this tower, have stood guard in this tower without a break. Are you saying you deserve more than all of them? That you’re <i>better</i> than every single one of them?” Mother Rassilon asks, and as Clara’s trying to form an answer that doesn’t make her look selfish or vain, Rassilon strikes again. “Clara, look down at your hair. Go on, look at it.”</p><p>And Clara does, glancing down at her dark brown locks that cascade over her shoulders in waves and fall past her knees. </p><p>“Your uncut hair represents your years of privileged service to me, to Gallifrey. That long hair is an <i>honor</i>, Clara, as is your position in this tower,” Mother Rassilon reminds her. “You may only cut it and leave as soon as your twenty-five years of service are complete. You are under obligation to be here for one more year.”</p><p><i>One</i> more year. So close and yet so far, and by then, of course, the Lantern Stars would be gone, not back again for another thousand years.</p><p>“Now,” Mother Rassilon says, smoothing down her velvet, wine-red robes. “Is there anything you need me to bring you with next month’s supplies?”</p><p>“I’m out of string,” Clara says, almost absently, as she tries to come up with better arguments in her mind. </p><p>“Ah, yes,” Mother Rassilon says, and for a second there’s a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Your mobiles. Have you not grown out of making those yet?”</p><p>Clara purses her lips for a second, eyes narrowing, “I thought the stars coming to me was a better idea than me going to the stars.”</p><p>Mother Rassilon blinks, takes a sharp breath, “Right. Well. I shall bring you some string the next time I make a delivery. And perhaps a new book, if I can find a suitable one.”</p><p>Clara nearly snorts at that. Last time Clara pressed to leave, Mother Rassilon had brought the soufflé pan hoping to distract her. But while Clara’d been pleased with it, it hadn’t worked. <i>Nothing</i> could possibly distract her from wanting to see what lay beyond her tower walls.</p><p>Mother Rassilon must sense the war going on in Clara’s mind and see the anger in her eyes, because she suddenly switches tactics, softens her voice, says, “You are part of something so much bigger than yourself. You are a part of history, part of what makes this society work. Gallifrey needs you, Clara, do you understand?”</p><p>And Clara likes the idea of being part of something bigger than herself. That she’s a cog that helps the clockwork run, a star that makes the constellation brighter.</p><p>Or, at least, this is what she tells herself, as she lies awake in her bed at night, staring up at the stars hanging from her ceiling, all the while dreaming of other worlds. Because the thing is, Clara has had twenty-four years to run through an escape plan in her mind, and each time, it fails. Her tower is stairless and doorless and high up in the sky, and the only way in or out is through the tiny lift. And the lift won’t work unless someone’s in the tower to unlock it and operate it. Clara’s tried tying triple knots and switching out the serrated cogs and even jamming a paintbrush in the wheels and keyholes but it just won’t work.</p><p>And the thing is, even if Clara could get out of the tower, she doesn’t know what the next step would be, where she could possibly run away to. Everyone on Gallifrey had their role to play, everyone has to serve where they’re assigned for their allotted time. No one would not help her or hide her, and it’d only end in punishment for her.</p><p>And Clara...Clara knows of Gallifreyan punishments. It’s in chapter twenty-five of one of her books. It talks of confession dial prisons and forced regeneration and other terrible, terrible things.</p><p>None of which Clara feels are worth the risk for just a few seconds outside her tower on the archive lot. </p><p>Besides, she tells herself, just another year, and she’d be free. And the Hundred-and-One Places to See would be waiting for her. </p><p>And so she says, “Yes, Mother Rassilon,” and lowers her down the lift.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Clara peers through her silver spyglass, watching Mother Rassilon’s retreating figure, and then, out of habit, she does another survey, her eyes sweeping over the archive.<p>And that’s when she sees it. </p><p>There’s something out of the corner of her eye, blurred and darting between and behind the crates and disappearing behind the pillars. Clara tries to focus her spyglass, eyes narrowing at the shape in the shadows. The blur is all white and grey and brown and based on the flapping motion it’s making, she thinks it might be a bird.</p><p>But then the shape moves again, slipping behind one of the covered sheds, giving her a brief but clear glance, and she sees that it’s positively, absolutely, definitely not a bird.</p><p>Birds don’t wear bow ties.</p><p>Clara leans forward, focusing her spyglass, and finds that the fluid, flapping motion she had thought were white wings are really white shirt sleeves and the intruder she sees is all long limbs and floppy hair, and she can’t help but run her gaze over the length of his body, pausing over the fit of his vest and the way his shirtsleeves were rolled up past his forearms and how there’s an untied bow tie hanging loosely around his neck, by the open first few buttons of his shirt.</p><p>And then there’s that grin, mischievous and glittering and mesmerizing, even from this distance, and it nearly throws her off her guard. </p><p>(Perhaps it’s a bit ridiculous to be staring at the cut of the clothes on a thief, or noticing his height or smile. That, Clara knows, is not the type of information Mother Rassilon would want in a report and yet Clara can’t help but mentally note it and file it away in a corner of her mind.)</p><p>Then intruder pauses and he seems focused, like he’s looking for only one thing, as his eyes search the area. </p><p><i>He’s a thief,</i> Clara deduces after studying his movements, coming for something specific. She reaches up, wrapping her fingers around the brass warning bell’s rope, ready to ring it, but if she’s being honest, she’s also curious about what a man like that would be thinking of stealing. </p><p>It’s then that the thief looks over his shoulder, startled by something, and then slips into the shadows, disappearing from view, and Clara watches, eyes narrowed, muscles tense. But he doesn't reappear, and slowly, her fingers unwrap from the warning bell’s rope. Perhaps the thief heard Mother Rassilon opening the gate to leave and thought it was someone opening the gate to come in. Clara’s seen intruders like that before, ones who look menacing or daring but who run off at the slightest sound. </p><p>They’re not even worth ringing the bell for. </p><p>Clara moves to the window on the other side of her tower, stands on her tiptoes and leans as far out of it as she dare to, looking at the scene down below. But there’s no movement, save for a few tumbleweeds she sees being blown about by the breeze, scattering out over the pavers and in-between the maze of storage sheds. She pulls back, goes back to the flats of her feet...</p><p>And that’s when she hears the lift.</p><p>The creaking noise, the metallic sound of the cogs clicking and spinning, of the rope slithering through the pulleys is unmistakable. Clara’s heard that sound every month of her life, after all, she knows what it is.</p><p>Which is why she knows it should be impossible that she’s hearing it.</p><p>Only someone in the tower can unlock the lift, can make the it lower and rise, and she’s not doing a single thing, the lever’s still in its proper place, the ropes untouched by her hands, and yet the cogs are turning like clockwork, the lift on its way up to her window. </p><p>Clara is as fascinated as she is fearful, and she presses herself back against the wall behind her little wood-burning oven, watching. Her pulse is screaming and her mind is spinning and cautiously, curiously, she peers forward to watch as the thief appears in her window.</p><p>He looks around in surprise at her tower, slips inside...</p><p>And then she knocks him upside the head with her soufflé pan.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>The thief lies unconscious on the tower floor, a tangled mess of long limbs and brown locks, and Clara stands above him, gripping her soufflé pan, staring down.<p>There’s adrenaline pumping through her, her ribcage screaming at her heavy breathing, her lungs pushing against her corset and the laces down the front of her chest on her dress, and testing her skills, she reaches out and pokes his foot with her own. But he doesn’t stir a bit, he’s completely out cold. </p><p>“Well,” she says aloud, sounding just a bit proud. “That turned out better than the soufflé did, didn’t it?”</p><p>Clara sets the pan down, giving it a pleased pat, goes over the warning bell, wraps her fingers around the rope and then...</p><p>Then nothing. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t pull it. She just stands there, thinking, staring at the thief on the floor, her mind ticking away with the seconds.</p><p>She should ring the bell, get him arrested. That was her job, after all.</p><p>But, but, <i>but</i>:</p><p>He knew how to work the lift while riding it, without needing to unlock the safety barriers first, without needing anyone in the tower to operate it. </p><p>And the fact that he has that knowledge is tantalizing, enthralling, too tempting to let slip through her fingers, so she takes her hand off the warning bell...</p><p>And she plans.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Clara ties the thief to a chair with twine from one of her mobiles, a model of a solar system she‘s ripped down from her ceiling, the mini moons and suns still attached, and she binds his wrists in front of him with a separate string of stars she had hanging above her bed.<p>(Clara knows that the little strung together galaxy from her ceiling isn’t really suitable, but it’s available, and she hadn’t been planning on having to tie up a thief on such short notice. It’ll just have to do, like her soufflé-pan-turned-weapon, which she’s actually quite proud of.)</p><p>And then she waits for him to wake up.</p><p>And she waits and she waits and she waits.</p><p>She’s just starting to think that maybe she hit him a little too hard, when he finally speaks.</p><p>“Ah, the Lantern Stars of Akhatan,” the thief says. “I’ve heard of those.”</p><p>Clara raises her soufflé pan warningly, but the thief’s not even looking at her. His head is lolled back, and he’s staring up at the mobile on her ceiling with a sort of dazed curiosity. </p><p>“They only rain down once every thousand years,” he continues, studying her artwork of it with a nearly scientific sort of fascination. “Bursting into blazing color and burning up before they ever reach the ground.”</p><p>Clara’s a little shocked that he knows this, a bit surprised he can recall it so easily, that the information can just slip off the tip of his tongue. The only reason she knows the information so well, after all, is it’s from one of the few books in her tower, and she’s had her whole life to reread that passage over and over, backward and forwards while she dreamt of the stars.</p><p>But that fact about him, as interesting as it may be and as nice as his voice sounds as he says it, is not exactly important at the moment.</p><p>Clara clears her throat, stands to her full height of five-feet-two-inches, and sternly levels her soufflé pan at him. “What are you doing up here?”</p><p>The thief brings his gaze down from the ceiling, his eyes landing on her, and Clara does a very good job at staying stony-faced while his eyes sweep over her, widening as they land on her soufflé pan.</p><p>“Hang on, is that what hit me?” He asks, and he somehow manages to sound inherently curious and utterly offended all at once. “You knocked me out with a soufflé pan?”</p><p>“I did and I’ll do it again if I have to,” Clara warns. “So behave.”</p><p>“You knocked me out with a <i>soufflé pan</i>!” he repeats, a bit incredulous, making Clara wonder again if perhaps she hit him a bit too hard. Then, looking her up and down once more, he adds, “How did you even reach my head? You’re hardly half my height.”</p><p>Never mind. After that unnecessary exaggeration, Clara doesn’t feel very bad about how hard she hit him. “What are you doing up here?” she repeats.</p><p>“Ah, right, well,“ he shifts about in the chair. “Quite simple, really. Slipped in through the gate, heard someone, needed a hiding place, thought your tower looked nice. Didn’t expected to be attacked with brute force and a baking instrument and then trussed up like a turkey, but that’s life, I’m afraid.” </p><p>He has an odd way of talking, rambling and blabbering but fast, as if he’s trying to pack too many words into a single run-on sentence before he runs out of air, and Clara doesn’t quite know what to make of it.</p><p>“How did you get up here?” Clara asks. “There are no stairs nor door.”</p><p>“Really?” He looks a bit intrigued. “Why not?” </p><p>Clara raises her soufflé pan warningly. </p><p>“Alright, alright,” he says, still managing to flap his hands around in a placating gesture despite his wrists being bound. “I rode up on the little lift. I do love a lift.”</p><p>“Yes, I know that, but it can only be used after being unlocked and operated by someone in this tower,” Clara says, gesturing to the set of copper gears and pulleys by the window. “Or so I thought, so how did you do it?”</p><p>“Ah, yes, well,” he says, trying to move about again in the chair, “why don’t you untie me and we can have a pleasant sort of conversation about it?”</p><p>And then he starts doing this...this <i>thing</i> with his face. His tilts his head down, but then looks up, up through his lashes, up right at her, and when he shifts ever so slightly, the shadows in the room play over the angles of his face, falling over his high cheekbones and highlighting the sharp line of his jaw.</p><p>Still, Clara’s not impressed.</p><p>(Okay, fine, maybe she’s just a tiny bit impressed, and maybe her heartbeats quicken ever so slightly under the intensity of his gaze and maybe, maybe, maybe she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, but only because he looks utterly ridiculous.</p><p>It’s absolutely not because she thinks he’s cute.)</p><p>“What are you doing?” Clara asks.</p><p>“A smolder. According to my friend, Jack Harkness, it’s supposed to work well on all species. Is it working?”</p><p>“Not really, no.”</p><p>“Ah, thought not,” he mutters half to himself, dropping the expression from his face before sighing. “You’ll find the answer to your question in my vest‘s inner left pocket.”</p><p>“This had better not be a trick, or - “</p><p>“Or you’ll smack me upside the head with your blunt baking instrument, I got it.”</p><p>Hesitantly, she steps toward him, and his eyes track her measured movements as she leans in closer and slips her hand beneath his vest, between the material and the warmth of his chest, and then she pulls out a device made of copper and cogs.</p><p>Curiously, Clara turns the slim device over in her hands. It looks like something magnificent, glittering like gold and glowing at the end like it’s trapped the light of a star.</p><p>“Sonic screwdriver,” the thief says, and he sounds just a little bit proud.</p><p>“Ah, breaking and entering.”</p><p>“Breaking? I didn’t break anything. Sonicing and entering. You’re the one who tried to break my jaw with a soufflé pan. It still hurts, by the way.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Clara says. “But that’s what you get in the burglary profession. You were trying to steal from here, after all.“</p><p>“Borrow,” he interrupts.</p><p>Clara blinks, wondering if she misheard him, “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Borrow,” he repeats empathetically, and he bounces the chair just a little bit closer to her. “I was always going to bring it back.”</p><p>Clara raises an eyebrow skeptically.</p><p>“I had,” he says, still managing to somehow gesture wildly even with his wrists tied, “a <i>plan</i>.”</p><p>Clara slowly gives him a once over, her eyes landing on his bound wrists. “And how’s that working for you?”</p><p>He ignores this, but he also looks to Clara like the type of man who would call having half an idea and a sense of gumption a plan.</p><p>Still, he’s captured her curiosity now, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t help but ask, “What were you trying to borrow, then?”</p><p>His eyes search hers for a minute, and then he smiles. It’s slow and wide and just a little bit sly, like he knows some sort of secret, “You don’t know what you’re really keeping watch over, do you?”</p><p>Despite herself, the corners of Clara’s lips twitch up, “Tell me, then.”</p><p>“Have you ever heard of a TARDIS?”</p><p>His words are unexpected and unprecedented, like a bombshell or a bolt out of the blue, and Clara falters for a minute, forgetting to breathe. There are exactly eleven books in her tower, you see, and one of them is old and leather-bound with fading ink and dog-eared pages. And in that book there is a chapter that talks about the best ships in the universe, about how there’s whole worlds contained in one starship, about how they can take you backwards and forwards in time, and from one end of the universe to the other. And the chapter reads exactly like a fairy tale, except it’s not, it’s <i>real.</i></p><p>“How could a TARDIS be here?” Clara asks. Because that was another thing the chapter had said, that these magical ships were few and far between, that there were so few made because they were so costly and created only to be used by specially<br/>
sanctioned members of the Gallifreyan government to keep guard of time. Mother Rassilon didn’t even have the honor of owning one, as far as Clara knew. </p><p>“I heard whispers of a TARDIS that disappeared because it was found faulty,” the thief tells her. “The Chameleon Circuit inside is broken and it can no longer transform its appearance. I’m guessing it’s this one, that it got taken away and locked up in here.”</p><p>Locked up in here, just like her.</p><p>“Chameleon Circuit,” Clara repeats, rolling the odd phrase over her tongue. “You know the ship’s specs and you came in here to steal it, and I don’t see a gravitational beam or a tow ship, and the only other way to get it out of here is to pilot it out, which means <i>you</i> know how to fly it.”</p><p>The thief grins, and it’s enigmatic, electric, made up of excitement and making her hearts tumble. “The thing about it being a time machine,” he says, “is that you could be halfway across the universe and back again without anything more than a second ever going by.”</p><p>“You can bring it back to the moment right after you’ve taken it,” Clara says, catching on to his train of thought. “If you did it just right, it’d look like the TARDIS never left the archive.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>Her pulse hums at the possibility, and Clara feels stupidly giddy, her breath catching in her chest as laughter threatens to spill across her lips. This was a ticket out of her tower, a chance of a lifetime, an opportunity to leave without risking Mother Rassilon’s wrath. Because, yes, she’s got a job to do and she’s part of the constellation that makes up Gallifrey, but if one of the stars in that many splendored string just slipped out for just a moment - just one moment - before coming back, did it even matter? If no one ever knew she was gone, was there even any harm?</p><p>A TARDIS was here, right under her nose, and now a pilot was too. And what were the odds of that - of out of all of time and space and out of every star that ever was and every other place they could possibly be - that the two of them and a TARDIS would find themselves at the exact same place at the exact same time?</p><p>And Clara Oswald has never believed in unshifting destiny and fate designed by the stars, but she does believe in taking chances, and so she says:</p><p>“I’m untying you.”</p><p>The thief looks taken aback, “What?”</p><p>“I’m untying you,” she repeats, circling around to the back of his chair and undoing the knot that’s there, “because you can’t very well fly the TARDIS like this, can you?”</p><p>“I thought you were against thieves.”</p><p>“Thought you said we’d only be borrowing it,” Clara counters quickly.</p><p>“<i>We?”</i></p><p>“You’re taking me with you.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Gratitude for letting you go?”</p><p>“No, no, no,” he says, leaning forward in the chair and tilting his head to peer up at her, his eyes searching hers as Clara reaches down and pulls his still-bound hands toward her and begins to untie them. “Not why would I take you, why would <i>you</i> take off with <i>me?”</i></p><p>Clara pauses, and without really meaning to, she finds her eyes drifting toward the ceiling, and the thief follows her gaze, up to the carefully painted Lantern Stars on a string.</p><p>“Ah,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s all about seeing them isn’t it?”</p><p>“I’ve read the same page about them over and over and over again,” Clara says. “Committed it to memory and recited it in my sleep and saw it in my dreams, have you ever done that?”</p><p>“Can’t say that I have.”</p><p>“Okay, well, I know that they’re out there, waiting for me, that the whole <i>universe</i> is all out there, breathing and burning and being and calling out to me, and I can hear it,” Clara says, overcome with a deep, unquestionable, unquenchable longing for the world she knows lies beyond the lines of the horizon. “I can <i>hear</i> it. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”</p><p>She tears her gaze away from the stars on the ceiling to look back down at him, but finds that he’s already looking at her, and there’s something in his eyes that’s soft as he stares back at her.</p><p>(Clara doesn’t know it yet, but this, <i>this</i> is the moment he falls in love with her.)</p><p>“I know exactly what that’s like,” he says.</p><p>Clara holds his gaze for just a second longer, and then she hands him back his sonic screwdriver and says, “Let’s go then.”</p><p>He laughs, taking the screwdriver from her, his eyes alight with mischief as he turns and leaps up onto the window’s ledge to work on the cogs and pulleys and Clara, meanwhile, walks toward her shelf. She picks up her book, One-Hundred-and-One Places to See, and turns to the page that holds the Lantern Stars.</p><p>“Soon,” she promises quietly, running her finger down the black and white print and the colorless sketches. Soon she’ll know exactly how brightly they glow and what colors they burn with against the night sky and what it feels like to be surrounded by floating bursts of starlight. </p><p>And then she tucks the book under her arm, along with her handy soufflé pan, and pulls herself up onto the window ledge next to her newfound partner.</p><p>He glances down at her, “Bringing the soufflé pan, are we?”</p><p>“I’ve got to keep you in line somehow.”</p><p>“You’re the boss,” he says, as he steps down from the window’s ledge, into the tiny wooden lift and Clara follows him. “The good news is that I’ve got the pulley ready to release without anyone having to manually be left in the tower to let it down.”</p><p>“What’s the bad news?”</p><p>“I can’t really control the speed.”</p><p>Clara swallows, staring down. They were miles and miles up in the sky with nothing below them but air and the ground. And the idea of dropping straight down makes her hearts hammer and her stomach twist, and for a second she almost feels like saying to forget it, feels like scrambling back into her tower where she’s safe and there’s a solid floor beneath her feet. </p><p>But there were also no stars in the tower, and if she had to trade security in for wonder, then it was a deal she had to take.</p><p>She nods, steeling herself, feeling much more nervous than she allows herself to look. </p><p>“I’m the Doctor, by the way,” the thief says. “What’s your name?”</p><p>Clara listens to the wind whistle as it winds around her tower and she thinks that right now isn’t really the time for introductions, that he’s just trying to distract her from the free fall they’re about to do.</p><p>But right now a distraction is welcoming.</p><p>She turns to look up at him, and for the first time, she realizes how close he’s standing to her, how in the light from the suns, his eyes look like a wondrous watercolor made up of green and gold. They remind her of a breathtaking nebula she saw in one of her books, and she swallows hard before pushing the thought from her mind.</p><p>“Clara,” she says. “My name’s Clara Oswald.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Clara,” he says. And then he holds out his hand, and when she takes it, he whispers, “Geronimo.”</p><p>And then they’re falling.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>They hit the ground in a glorious crash that nearly bounces them back upwards, and Clara finds herself being shaken like a coin in a jar, jolted and jostled about. And as she tries to find her balance, the lift tilts, tipping her forward, and she trips on the hem of her dress and falls onto the ground, her hair flying everywhere. She feels the Doctor’s hands clasp lightly around the curve of her shoulders before sliding down to her arms, helping her up.<p>“You okay?” the Doctor asks, parting her wild curtain of hair and peering down at her face.</p><p>“Yes, thanks,” Clara says, hazily righting herself, trying not to trip on her dress again. “You?”</p><p>“King of Okay,” he says.</p><p>Clara’s lips twitch as she picks up her fallen book and soufflé pan, carefully tucking them back into place under her arm again, “That’s what you’re going with?”</p><p>“Right. Rubbish title. Forget I said that,” he says, wrinkling his nose, before changing the subject. “Come on, someone might’ve heard that crash landing.”</p><p>And then he’s taking her hand, pulling her behind him, and she’s running as fast as she can, hair flying, hearts pounding as he leads her through the winding maze of walls and crates and pods and vaults, dodging left before swerving right, his turns getting seemingly sharper as he gets closer to his destination.</p><p>“This is it,” he announces suddenly, bringing her to a halt just as quickly as he’d pulled her into running, and Clara stumbles into his shoulder at the abrupt stop. She’s about to say something, but when she peers around him, she sees the bluest blue she’s ever seen. It is more vibrant than any of the pictures in any of her books, prettier than any of the colors she’s painted with. The shade is darker than the evening sky, but brighter than the night, and it is beautiful.</p><p>“Just give me a second to get her open,” the Doctor says, and Clara nods, ripping her gaze away from the TARDIS and turning around to keep an eye out.</p><p>She grips her soufflé pan in her fist, starts to make a survey for danger...</p><p>....And that’s when it all hits her. </p><p>The evening sky and the burning red glow from the setting suns, the air that smells so amazingly fresh and the warm summer wind that’s sweeping strands of hair back off her shoulders. And it is just the base of her tower, just the archive lot. There is nothing surrounding them but bricks and crates, high gates and brass locks, but it is new, seeing them all from this angle, seeing them up close and in person and not from a distance or through the tiny circle of her spyglass.</p><p>And it is <i>wonderful.</i></p><p>“Clara? Hello, Clara?”</p><p>Clara shakes her gaze away from the sky, brings it back down to the Doctor, who’s standing in front of the open TARDIS door, staring back, and there’s something that looks like concern or curiosity in his eyes.</p><p>(Clara wouldn’t really know. Mother Rassilon’s never looked at her with either.)</p><p>“Clara,” he says again. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” Clara says shaking her head, because maybe, for once, everything is <i>right</i>. “I just...it’s all...”</p><p>He studies her face, and slowly, understanding lights up his eyes. “You’ve never left that tower,” he says.</p><p>She shakes her head, “No. I’ve been in that tower my whole life. I’ve never left archive.”</p><p>They stand there for another second, and then he smiles and says, “Well, then, Clara Oswald. I think it’s about time you did.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>They’re crashing.<p>
  <i>Again.</i>
</p><p>Clara holds onto the TARDIS’ railing, being rocked and thrown about, trying not to scream as she asks, “What’s happening?”</p><p>“We’re flying,” the Doctor shouts gleefully. </p><p>“We’re <i>crashing</i>,” she counters. “I thought you knew how to fly this thing!”</p><p>Everything is all spinning colors and glowing lights, swirling floors and whirling, watercolor walls and Clara finds herself wondering if this is what being a falling star would feel like as it burned through the atmosphere and crashed to the earth.  </p><p>“I took lessons!” he shouts, struggling to hold onto the console as the TARDIS plummets through the vortex. </p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>“Well, a lesson. From a class.”</p><p>“Please tell me you passed it.”</p><p>“I passed it.”</p><p>“Are you lying?”</p><p>“Possibly.”</p><p>“To make me feel better?”</p><p>“Is it working?’</p><p>“Not really,” Clara says. “<i>Why</i> would you steal something you didn’t know how to fly?”</p><p>It’s then that he pulls another lever down and the TARDIS levels out, and slowly, Clara’s fingers unwrap from the bars as he says, “See? I do know how to fly it. In fact, I’m landing it now.”</p><p>It’s as he says this that there’s another jolt.</p><p>The TARDIS hits the ground with a thundering thud and Clara’s skirt tangles in her legs, knocking her toward the hard TARDIS floor. The Doctor lurches forward, making a mad grab for her, his arm snaking around her waist, his hand falling right above the curve of her hip to steady her, but the momentum drags them both down anyway, and he falls onto the ground and then she falls on top of him.</p><p>For a second Clara’s knocked senseless, shocked and speechless as her body lies over his, her hands on his chest, her two palms resting right over his two hearts, and she can feel his twin heartbeats even beneath his vest, fast and fluttering and matching her own. Her eyes find his, and when they do, she feels his chest suddenly move beneath her as he takes in a sharp intake of breath.</p><p>And then he says: </p><p>“I wish you’d take that dress off.”</p><p>She blinks and then he blinks, and she can physically see him rethinking his sentence, see the second his words register in his mind, and then he’s blushing, backtracking, desperately trying to correct himself.</p><p>“I didn’t, I didn’t mean -“</p><p>“I know,” Clara rushes, their conversation coming out in an anxious, rapid fire string of words.</p><p>“Because you tripped again, and - “</p><p>“I understand. I do.”</p><p>“Good,” he says, nodding, his head banging back against the floor. “Good.”</p><p>For some reason, they find that they haven’t risen from their current positions to have this conversation. </p><p>For some reason, his hand is still curled against the curve of her spine. </p><p>“Right,” she says. “Well, then. I mean, we’ve landed. We’d better -“</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>She rolls off of him and he scrambles up, and the both of them do an admirable job of avoiding direct contact as they walk around the console. There’s a beat of silence as they both stare at the white TARDIS doors, and then the Doctor says: </p><p>“Everything you’ve ever wanted and dreamt of right outside these doors. Are you ready?”</p><p>Clara grins. There are butterflies in her stomach and buzzing in her brain and she’s ready. She’s definitely, definitely ready.</p><p>“Clara Oswald,” the Doctor says, throwing the doors open wide, “feast your eyes on the Lantern Stars of the Akhatan night.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>There are no lantern stars.<p>It’s definitely not night.</p><p>And Clara’s not sure it’s even Akhatan.</p><p>It’s beautiful, though, breathtakingly so.</p><p>They’ve landed in the middle of an autumn wood, and the world is painted in warmth, and Clara’s eyes grow wide as she takes in the sight of trees filled with red and gold leaves beneath a deep sapphire sky. A slight breeze is ruffling through the leaves, making them wave like water, and somewhere off in the distance, there is birdsong.</p><p>“Right,” the Doctor says, and from behind her, she can feel him fidget, imagines him waving his hands about awkwardly. “Not Akhatan. Near it, though.”</p><p>“Not just the Chameleon Circuit that’s a bit off, is it?” Clara asks, not taking her eyes off the sight that’s in front of her. “Navigation’s a bit knackered too.”</p><p>The Doctor’s saying something else now, rambling on about coordinates and steering, but Clara’s no longer listening. She puts one foot outside and then -</p><p>
  <i>Crunch.</i>
</p><p>On instinct, Clara snaps her foot off the ground, reflexively taking a step back, and the Doctor’s hands catch her around her shoulders as her back bumps into his chest, his fingers warm even through the fabric of her dress. “Clara?”</p><p>She smiles, eyes wide, and looks down, down at the ground that looks like a painted masterpiece of flamelike orange and yellow and red. The forest floor, she realizes, is covered with a myriad of dry, fallen leaves.</p><p>Clara’s never seen an autumn like this, but she puts it together quickly, connecting the dots and grinning as she steps forward again, listening to the crunching sound coming from beneath her feet. </p><p>“Never knew they made that sound,” she says in wonder, watching as the breeze stirs the fallen leaves, scattering them into a different multicolored pattern and blowing them across her feet.</p><p>And it feels like freedom, the wind in her hair and the world in her grasp and the tower far behind her. This is the start of something, she knows, and even if she goes back to the tower, she can’t go back to who she used to be.</p><p>Not after she knows that there are places in the world that look like this. </p><p> A ruby red leaf floats down on the wind, dancing by her, and Clara plucks it from the air, twirling it’s stem between her fingers.</p><p>The Doctor stares at her, smiling faintly, eyes sweeping over her, like she’s a puzzle he likes but can’t quite figure out. “What’s the leaf for?”</p><p>“It’s not a leaf,” Clara says. “It’s Page One.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>The next stop isn’t Akhatan.<p>The next three aren’t either.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>“She’s trying her best,” the Doctor says, running the palm of his hand lightly over the levers and multicolored flickering lights. “I think we’re getting closer each time.”<p>“Or maybe you’re just making a habit of getting us lost,” Clara says. </p><p>Except she’s not mad, she’s grinning as she says it, and he’s grinning back, and it’s like they’re perfectly in sync sometimes. There’s this look in his eyes he gets when they’re hurtling into the unknown, a sort of hunger, like he’s just dying for the taste of adventure.</p><p>If Clara looked in a mirror, she’d see the same thing.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div><i>“Exterminate.”</i><p>They’ve just landed somewhere that’s night, but that’s definitely not Akhaten, and the voice that screams through the darkness makes Clara grip her soufflé pan. “Who’s that?”</p><p>The Doctor’s eyes dart around the dark night nervously, “They don’t like me.”</p><p>Clara’s about to ask who exactly it is that doesn’t like him, but then there’s the sound of creaking, like something made of metal is marching toward them. “Who’s that?” </p><p>“They don’t like me either.”</p><p>And now there’s a rattling noise and a hiss riding toward them on the wind, and something about the sound makes Clara hold up her soufflé pan like a shield, ready to protect them both. “Who’s <i>that?”</i></p><p>“Let’s just assume for the moment that everyone here doesn’t like me!” the Doctor says, and he drags her back inside the TARDIS.</p><p>“Try again?” Clara asks back pressed against the inside of the shut door, soufflé pan clutched to her chest.</p><p>“Try again,” the Doctor says.</p><p>And then they’re off.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>“Sorry about that,” the Doctor says, after their eighth wrong landing.<p>“Well,” Clara says, “I <i>did</i> want to see the world.”</p><p>(And neither one of them notices how long they stand there, smiling at the other.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>When Clara opens the TARDIS doors for what might be the tenth time, there’s a gasp on her lips that comes with the sight in front of her.<p>And it’s not Akhatan or the Lantern Stars. In fact, what she sees outside is something simple, Clara supposes, something every day and ordinary, maybe even a nuisance for most. But for her it’s magical, nearly mind-reeling, and there’s an awed sort of feeling in her soul as she stares ahead.</p><p>“Ah,” the Doctor says, coming to stand in the doorway behind her. “Rain.”</p><p><i>Rain</i>, Clara repeats to herself silently, her eyes scanning the sky. There’s light rain falling from grey clouds all across a green field, empty except for the TARDIS, and the tall blades of grass sparkle with dewdrops and ripple and roll as they’re dusted with rain, and Clara finds she can’t look away.</p><p>“Well, we’ve landed closer this time, so sort of on-target,” the Doctor continues, unaware of how Clara’s currently losing her mind. “Never-mind, just one more try and we should have it right. Won’t even be a long hop. Ready, Clara? Clara?”</p><p>It’s then that Clara can feel his eyes finally fall on her, and for a moment, there’s just the sound of falling rain against the wooden TARDIS roof, and then he says, very softly, “You’ve never seen rain before, have you?”</p><p>“I’ve seen it from my window,” Clara says, still entranced by the sight. “It hardly ever rains where my tower is, but every so often a wet desert storm will sweep over the sand outside. I’ve seen it four, maybe five times. But I’ve never...”</p><p>She trails off there, taking a tentative step out of the TARDIS instead. And she stands there, feeling a cool raindrop nestle in her hair and then another and another and another, and for a minute, she goes still as a statue, watching as raindrops dot across her skin like watery constellations.</p><p>And then she’s moving and laughing and spinning, arms spread out like a pair of wings as she throws her head back under the sky full of rain and lets it wash over her, lets it soak into her skin and dampen her dress. The sensation is entirely new, amazing and exhilarating, and she spins in place again, enjoying the way the raindrops fly off her fingers like glitter.</p><p>Happiness and laughter dance around in her chest because it feels good, so, so good to be alive, and after spending all those years locked in a tower, she had no idea that alive could feel like <i>this</i>. </p><p>When she spins around again, she finds herself surprised, finds she nearly collides with the Doctor who’s joined her outside, under the rain-filled sky. She laughs quietly, looks up at him, and then all of her laughter turns to something softer, something quieter, because that’s when she realizes just how close they are, how they’re suddenly face to face and how neither one of them’s stepping away.</p><p>It’s like everything about him is sharper, clearer. Clara can see each speck in the hazel nebula that makes up the color of his eyes and how his shirt is soaked, plastered onto the broad slope of his shoulders and the way beads of water run along his skin, down the curve of his neck, and cling to the tender hollow of his throat and the sharp edge of his collarbone before falling beneath his vest.</p><p>He inhales sharply, and Clara can see it, feel it, and his gaze is flickering from her eyes to her lips, and he looks hesitant, cautious, but he’s not moving back and neither is she. So they stand there, silent as the rain falls around them, and then the Doctor starts to speak.</p><p>“Clara,” he says, her name nothing more than a whisper, “I -“</p><p>But whatever he’s about to say is lost to time, because all at once, there’s a bang, like steel against steel, and the darkness is suddenly lit up like the dawn. Clara jumps, gasps and grasps at thin air, as if trying to find her trusty soufflé pan.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s lightning and thunder,” the Doctor tells her, his hands reaching out for her waist, holding her still before she can take off to fight against a non-existant foe. “Comes with the rain sometimes. Sorry. Suppose I should’ve warned you about that.”</p><p>“Right,” Clara says, fight-or-flight mode fading just as suddenly as it had started, leaving her awkward and flushing and flustered. “Right. I should’ve...I’ve heard about it of course. Read about it.”</p><p>The Doctor nods vigorously, strands of wet, deep brown hair falling against his forehead at the sudden burst of movement. “Of course.”</p><p>“Different in a book.”</p><p>“Right, well, yes,” the Doctor nods again, almost awkwardly, as if he’s eager to fill the air with words, because he knows silence would be much worse than his clumsy replies. “It would be.”</p><p>She curls her fingers around his wrists where they rest on her waist, and she can feel the fast, fluttering thrum of his pulse beneath his skin, though she doesn’t know whether it’s from the suddenness of the thunder or from whatever just happened between them, and Clara lets out a shuddery breath, crossing her arms and closing her eyes. What <i>had</i> just happened between them? she wonders, wishing she knew what the Doctor had been about to say and do.</p><p>But she figures she’ll never know, because instead of saying anything else, the Doctor coughs, clears his throat, holds his hands awkwardly in the air for a moment, fingers pointed upward. </p><p>“Guess we’d better get back to the TARDIS,” he says. </p><p>“Right,” Clara says. “To the TARDIS.”</p><p>And then he offers her his arm, and they walk back in silence, and as they trek through the summer rain, Clara knows that something between them has changed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Akhatan.<p>They’re on Akhatan.</p><p>Really, actually, properly on Akhatan.</p><p>The name circles through Clara’s mind like a whirlwind, spinning faster and faster and faster as she looks up at the sky stretched out above her that’s a glorious gradient fading from the palest blue to the darkest. </p><p>The light is leaving quickly and soon it’ll be night, she tells herself, soon she’ll be under a sky raining stars. She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, filled to the brim with anticipation, bursting with excitement, and then she feels the Doctor come up beside her. </p><p>“Come on,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his own, “you really didn’t think I’d let you see the Lantern Stars from all the way over here, did you, Miss Oswald?”</p><p>“We’re not watching from here?”</p><p>“Course not, terrible view. Let’s go,” he says, holding out his hand.</p><p>Clara narrows her eyes, but finds she’s grinning despite herself, “Where are we going?”</p><p>And as she slides his hand in his, he says:</p><p>“Page two.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Page two, as it ends up, is a boat out on the water.<p>The water is clear and still and dark velvet blue, a reflection of the night sky above, and Clara sits, trailing her fingers anxiously in the colon water as she watches the sky, not quite believing that after all these years, she’s actually here.</p><p>“I’ve been staring at this page in my book for twenty-four years,” she says into the silence. “I know each word on it like I know the back of my hand. I’ve dreamed about the stars a billions times, built it all up in my mind, and I can’t believe I’m actually about to see something I’ve thought about my entire life.”</p><p>“It’ll be everything you’ve ever dreamed,” the Doctor promises her, as if he’d burn the stars himself for her, just to make sure she gets to see what she wants to. “It’ll be more than that, even.”</p><p>“I know, it’s just...this is the one thing I’ve wanted, the one thing I’ve wished for,” Clara whispers. “What happens when this page is over?”</p><p>She turns to look at him, and as his eyes search hers, there’s a sort of gentleness to them she hasn’t seen before, one that makes her almost ache at the tenderness that’s there and wonder if it’s a look he has only for her.</p><p>“You turn the page,” he tells her as he reaches out across the boat and takes her hand in his, his thumb ghosting softly against it. “You go on to the next one.”</p><p>
  <i>The next page.</i>
</p><p>Clara’s grip tightens around his hand, and she wants to tell him something, something important, because she knows what she wants her next page to be, knows it like she’s known it her whole life, like it’s written into her skin, and she’s about to say something, to tell him, and then:</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a light in the sky.</p><p>Clara swivels toward it, breath hitching in her throat as she rocks the boat with her sudden movement, nearly tipping them over as she focuses on the single spark in the dark.</p><p>And then there’s another spark, and another, and another, almost like someone’s thrown firecrackers into the air, and then:</p><p>The sky is filled with living color.</p><p>The stars are raining, and they burn in every shade. They’re blazing, dissolving, alight with flame. They dissipate into deep blue, into lavender and pale pink, and then they burn into silver and sea green, glow red and gold as they burn up and fade out. Their radiance reflects off the water below, sending a shimmer across the surface, making it look like Clara’s floating in a sea made up of sparkling stars, as if she herself is awash and aglow with starlight. </p><p>It is captivating, enchanting, and she is utterly spellbound and suitably awed, wordless and wonderstruck, because it’s like she’s slipped in-between the pages of one of her books and found herself inside a fairy tale.</p><p>No, Clara corrects herself, it’s better than any fairy tale she’s read and it is so much better than how her book described or what she’d dreamed up in her head. It is so much brighter and so much more beautiful and just so much more. More, more, <i>more.</i></p><p>She turns to the Doctor, smiling at the reflection of the stars that’s washing over his skin, that’s making him look like he’s got stardust in his eyes, and she sees that he’s already been watching her instead of the sky. </p><p>“Don’t go back to the tower,” he says suddenly, the string of words coming out in a single exhale, a brief rush of breath. “Stay with me. In the TARDIS. There’s a whole wide universe out there, and we could run forever.”</p><p>Clara’s not sure what expression she’s expecting to see on his face. A careless one, maybe, or a joking one. Perhaps that devil-may-care look she’s seen him wear when he’s piloting the TARDIS and he’s grinning and his eyes are glittering and he’s getting a high off of running toward danger.</p><p>But he’s not wearing any one of those looks. Instead he just looks...honest. Open and raw and maybe a little scared and Clara feels such a surge of affection for him that a smile slips across her face unbidden.</p><p>“Why, Doctor,” she says lightly, teasingly. “Is this a proposal?”</p><p>“No, I - “ He blushes bright pink, nearly matching one of the burning stars above, and then he’s protesting and stammering, awkwardness replacing his calmness. And when her smile grows wider, goading him, he huffs at her. “Shut up.”</p><p>Clara laughs, and he can’t stay mad at her when she does that, can’t ever stay mad at her anyway, so he starts again.</p><p>“The thing is, Clara,” he says, and there’s that look in his eye again, the soft one that makes Clara’s pulse stutter, “You - ”</p><p>And then everything fades to black and falls apart.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Clara’s head is heavy and hazy, like there’s a deep fog inside she can’t find her way out of, and when she tries to open her eyes, the world is a dark, dizzying, painful blur of light and shadow. Though it hurts, she lifts her head...<p>And finds that she’s back in her tower, looking right into the eyes of Mother Rassilon.</p><p>“You were out for quite a while after I stunned you,” Rassilon says cooly. “It’s about time you joined us.”</p><p>Clara jerks away, trying to step backwards on instinct, but she is wrenched forward, jolted painfully back into place, and she bites her tongue to keep from screaming. There are black spots swimming in front of her eyes and stinging in her muscles and a fire in her head, like it’s burning up her skull to embers and ashes, and when she looks to the side, she sees why: </p><p>Mother Rassilon’s bound her by her own hair. Clara’s long tresses are hopelessly tangled, twisted and braided in knot after impossible knot, tying her down to a chair by the tower’s little stove.</p><p>And even worse than that, the Doctor is there too, next to the TARDIS, with one arm tied to the bed, just out of Clara’s reach. </p><p>“It’s okay, Clara,” the Doctor tells her, before turning in his binding and shooting Mother Rassilon a look that’s both dark and knife-sharp. “Everything’s going to be <i>fine</i>.”</p><p>“Ever the optimist, aren’t we?” Mother Rassilon says with a humorless smile, before turning back to Clara. “I would’ve tied you up ages ago, if I’d known you’d be so much trouble. Saved myself the trip of having to come and fetch you and bring you back here myself. At least you left clues as to where you went. Your beloved little Lantern Star mobile pointed the way like a beacon.”</p><p>Clara’s hair is pulling at her scalp and she’s holding onto the back of the chair for support, but somehow, through the pain, something registers, and Mother Rassilon’s words don’t seem quite right.</p><p>“Yourself?” Clara asks, taking in a shaky inhale. “You’ve got armies under your command and as you’ve pointed out before, I’m one cog in a collection of many. Why didn’t you send someone else after me?”</p><p>Mother Rassilon blinks, lips parted ever so slightly, and it’s like seeing a ripple in a lake before it smooths back over. And it’s only a little movement and it’s only for a moment, but it’s enough to tell Clara she was right about it being wrong.</p><p>“It’s because of the TARDIS, isn’t it?” the Doctor asks, except it’s not really a question, not when it sounds like he already knows the answer. He gestures toward Rassilon with his one hand that’s not tied down, “It’s not the council’s TARDIS, it’s <i>yours</i> and you’re hiding here. Wait a second, no, it’s not even yours, is it? You stole it.”</p><p>“I deserved it,” Mother Rassilon snaps, the anger rolling off of her like sea waves. “I’m a ranking member of the High Council and yet they wouldn’t give me one. Said they were too precious, too limited, only to be given to certain assigned officials to guard time itself.” She’s getting angrier now, words coming out harder with each sentence she speaks, “So I stole a faulty one, off the repair line, just to have it, just to know it’s mine. Because I deserve it. I am <i>owed</i> it. Do you know how long I’ve served, how much of my life I’ve given to Gallifrey?”</p><p>She laughs, and it’s angry and mirthless sharp. “And it was going fine, until you two, the madman and the impossible girl, had to go interfere. Not that you’ll be able to interfere for much longer.” </p><p>And as she says this, Rassilon reaches up the sleeve of her robe and reveals a gun, and Clara inhales sharply, her muscles stiffening, her body feeling like it’s somehow turning both hot and cold.</p><p>“A blast of this and you’ll start to regenerate,” Mother Rassilon says, tilting the gun to its side, lighting it gleam dangerously in the light. “Another blast while you’re regenerating, before your body can finish healing itself, and well, that’s it. Had to bring you back here to dispose of you, of course,” Mother Rassilon  continues. “There’d be too many questions if anyone went looking for either of you and saw your bodies next to TARDIS landing marks. But now I’ll get to say that a thief broke in and killed our dear little Clara, and then I killed him. Are you afraid, yet Clara? Because if you aren’t, you should be.”</p><p>“I’m not afraid,” Clara says fiercely, a fire in her kindling. She’s panting and her pulse is pounding, but she looks Mother Rassilon right in the eye and says, “I’ll leave that to <i>you.”</i></p><p>Mother Rassilon’s breath hitches for just a second, and she’s shaken, thrown by Clara’s words, nearly confused, and Clara smiles, says, “It scares you, doesn’t it? That you have all this power and here you are, still acting out of fear.”</p><p>Mother Rassilon breath shudders and her hand shakes. Clara’s hit a nerve, gotten under her skin, and in return, Rassilon swivels the gun toward the Doctor. </p><p>A sharp and sudden coldness overtakes Clara. She whips her head around to face him, forgetting that her hair’s still tied to a chair and pain rips through her, but Clara can’t care, not now, not when her stomach’s twisting in fear and her eyes growing wide, because she can’t watch him die.</p><p>She <i>can’t.</i></p><p>But Mother Rassilon pulls the trigger, the end of the gun fizzes with an orange flare, and then -</p><p>Then instead of the Doctor, <i>Mother Rassilon’s</i> covered in a burst of orange energy.</p><p>Clara stares, stunned, shell-shocked, mind spinning around as Rassilon falls to the ground, gold regeneration energy starting to engulf her. The blast was deflected, Clara realizes, reflected and thrown back. But <i>how</i>? How did the Doctor do that?</p><p>Clara turns, sees the Doctor holding a familiar object up to his chest with one free hand.</p><p>“Soufflé pans,” he says, grinning like mad. “Who knew, right?”</p><p>Clara let’s out a shaky gasp, covers her mouth with her hands.</p><p>“See?” He says, “Told you everything was going to be just fine, didn’t I, Clara? Now let’s get out of here before she finishes regenerating and - “</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.</p><p>Instead he is interrupted by two blasts directly to the chest.</p><p>And it’s like everything is both blurry and clear, in slow motion but moving too fast, because Clara sees the Doctor falling, collapsing, hitting the floor and not getting back up. And turning, Clara sees Rassilon, leaning against the lift, looking half-dead, golden regeneration energy still radiating off of her. Rassilon’s shaking, determined and angry, and she rests heavily against the wooden lift, looping her arm in-between the slates to steady herself as she levels the gun right at Clara.</p><p>And Clara lurches, lifts the chair still attached to her hair, and with every ounce of strength she has, she hurls it and herself into the lift controls, pushing the chair into it, her body crashing down against the cogs, and she cries out, bruised and bleeding - </p><p>But it <i>breaks.</i></p><p>The cogs in the controls burst out, falling to the floor in a metallic scream, the ropes running wild, the levers shaking and sputtering, and the lift falls.</p><p>And Mother Rassilon goes with it.</p><p>Clara’s breathing is ragged and her pulse is raging and her mind is spinning, but she has no time to think, no time to consider what just happened. Instead she blindly reaches out for the knife she knows rests on her stove nearby, hacking her hair off from the chair. She slices the knife through the tangled mess mindlessly as she frees herself, going as quick as she can, her hair coming out in jagged ends that reach her shoulders.</p><p>She doesn’t have time to cut anything better. </p><p>The knife barely makes it through the last bunched up brunette knot, and then Clara’s turning, running toward the Doctor, collapsing to her knees next to him, her hands falling to either side of his face.</p><p>“Doctor,” she says, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. “Doctor, can you hear me?”</p><p>He’s breathing, but it’s weak, barely enough to blow a feather away, and he opens his eyes just a sliver, barely seeing her beneath his lashes.</p><p>“Anything happens while you’re regenerating and suddenly you can’t anymore. Gallifreyan biology,” he says disdainfully, breathlessly. “It’s all a bit rubbish if you ask me.”</p><p>“It’s going to be okay, just stay awake,” Clara says, because there’s simply no other solution she can possibly accept. This isn’t how their story ends, it can’t be. “Just...just stay with me.”</p><p>But he’s slipping away, she can feel it, can feel him sliding out of her grasp and going into a darkness she can’t follow him into.</p><p>“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Clara says like a chant, like maybe if she says it enough it’ll come true. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”</p><p>She thinks maybe she says it too late, that maybe he doesn’t hear her, but then he looks up at her one last time. </p><p>“Oh, Clara Oswald,” he says, his lips twitching up into a slow, sad smile. “You were my next page.”</p><p>A cry twists in Clara’s throat, cutting her chest and stealing her breath, as she remembers how the leaf was page one and the boat was page two, and how - in that moment on the water, under the silken sky as he’d told her to turn the page to the next one - <i>in that very moment</i>, she knew that he was her next page.</p><p>“And you were mine,” she whispers.</p><p>Then he shuts his eyes.</p><p>And they don’t open.</p><p>And Clara feels like she’s a girl made of glass that’s splintered and shattering, shaking and screaming and crying, because this, this is worse than dying. </p><p><i>This can’t be happening</i>, she thinks as she sobs, <i>it can’t be happening.</i></p><p>(“<i>It is,</i>” the universe whispers back to her, <i>“it is.</i>”)</p><p>Her thumbs brush across his cheeks and she bows her head over his chest, and she sobs and she thinks and she thinks and she <i>thinks</i>.</p><p>Get killed in the middle of regenerating and your own regeneration energy won’t work, but what if someone else’s regeneration energy could work? What if, what if, what <i>if?</i> Clara presses her palms against his skin, squeezes her eyes shut against the tears, and presses her forehead to his. She tries to concentrate all that she is on the Doctor, tries to envision golden energy transferring from her to him. Because maybe it’s not too late, maybe she can resuscitate him, maybe this will work, maybe, maybe, <i>maybe.</i></p><p>All of Clara’s hopes are pinned on a <i>maybe</i>, but <i>maybe</i> is all she has. </p><p>But nothings happening. There’s no golden glow coming from her fingers, no sign of any kind, and she’s crying harder now, but she doesn’t stop trying, because the thing about Clara is, she’s stubborn and she doesn’t give up, not until she has what she wants.</p><p><i>I have to save him,</i> she thinks, staring down at him. <i>Let me save him.</i></p><p>One of her tears slides down her face and falls onto his...</p><p>And then there is a glimmer of gold. </p><p>Clara’s breath catches beneath her breastbone and she stares down in wonder as two more of her tears fall onto the Doctor and dissolve into golden flames, and then, ever so slowly, a golden shimmer starts across his skin.</p><p>“Doctor?” His name is a gasp on her lips and her heartbeats are catching in her chest, and she’s hoping, desperately, desperately hoping, and never has she ever begged the universe for a favor like she is now. She watches, wishfully, tensely, as the gold shimmer moves into the air to spread and swirl over his body like a yellow, star-filled nebula. It’s <i>healing</i> him, she realizes, <i>restoring</i> him, and she holds her breath, clutches onto his vest, waits and then - </p><p>Beneath her fingers, she feels his chest begins to move.</p><p>“Doctor,” she says again, and she can feel his heartbeats growing stronger, and then he’s coughing, wheezing, and she’s helping him up. </p><p>His eyes flutter open and he looks around and down at her, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, he reaches up and gently wipes away one of her tears with his thumb, and the simple act is enough to unarm her, calm her, tell her it’s all going to be okay, and a smile spreads across her face as she looks down at him, breathing out shaky inhales and exhales of sudden relief. And then he opens his mouth, and says:</p><p>“That was a yes, earlier, by the way.”</p><p>Clara gives him a watery laugh and a little shake of her head, and <i>stars</i>, it feels so good to hear his voice even if he’s not making any sense, “Yes what?”</p><p>He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, lets his fingers linger in her hair, “Yes, that was a proposal.”</p><p>Clara replays his words in her head, thinks back to the conversation they had on the boat before being interrupted about running away and then she’s laughing and moving, and soon they’re crashing and colliding. His arms come around her automatically, catching her as she falls against him, and then she’s kissing him. And she feels him smile against her lips and then he’s pulling her closer and kissing her back. </p><p>And she’s aware of everything and of nothing. She’s lost track of the time and the tower’s faded away, but she’s keenly aware of how achingly gentle his hands are on her and the way they wind through her hair and how she is breathless and speechless, kissed senseless, as her hands hang onto the front of his vest. He is starlight and summer rain, every good thing she’s found, and he’s her next page, her new adventure, and she knows it can’t get any better. </p><p>And then he’s laughing lovingly against her lips, breaking away, burying his face in her hair, and she can feel his warm breath on her ear as he leans in and jokingly whispers, </p><p>“So I take it your answer’s <i>yes</i>?”</p>
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  <p>#</p>
</div>They go everywhere.<p>They race all across time and all over space, taking in wonder after wonder and wonder. They see collapsing nebulas and burning supernovas, spinning comets and colored rain, canyons of ice and cerulean eclipses. It’s freer than she’s ever been, better than any story she’d ever dreamt up in her head, and they visit each one of the Hundred-and-One Places to See, adding their own pages along the way to the leaf that’s page one, the leaf from the very first new planet she’d been on. They add a pressed alien flower as page five, an ancient gold coin as page fifty-four, a ring as page ninety-nine, and when they’ve visited each place on the list and the book is nearly bursting, full of extra pages and milestones and memories, the Doctor says:</p><p>“So, which page was your favorite?”</p><p>And as he pulls her in close, she says, “<i>You</i>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1) When I started this fairy tale series and lined up a list of retellings I wanted to do, Rapunzel with Clara x Eleven was one of the ones I wrote down, though I had been originally planning on tackling a different fairy tale next after The Little Mermaid. But then kitkat3011 (Hi, if you’re reading this! 💜) left me a comment mentioning Matt Smith as Flynn Rider and then I thought about the Doctor desperately trying to smolder. And then I looked up photos of Matt Smith in magazine photo shoots actually doing the smolder. It just snowballed from there and voila, my then-current fairy tale wip was pushed back and Rapunzel was moved up. </p><p>2) I try to keep the Doctor in his same outfit in all my retellings, because it’s already got this timeless quality to it, and I wanted it to feel like he’s been tipped out of his TARDIS and straight into a storybook. But. You know. Flynn Ryder doesn’t wear tweed jackets. So for this one, I picture him in his outfit from Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS, where he’s ditched the jacket and spends the episode in his vest and shirtsleeves, kind of merged with his ever so brief look from A Christmas Carol where he is also sans-tweed, has his bow tie hanging untied around his neck, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. </p><p>3) This story was partially inspired by the fact that it’s canon that, in one of her lives, Clara was a two-hearted Gallifreyan Time Lady who helped the Doctor steal a TARDIS. Mother Rassilon is a reference to the Rassilon who the Doctor went up against in Heaven Sent/Hell Bent to get Clara back, Clara being able to give the Doctor extra regeneration energy a reference to her actions in The Time of the Doctor, and there’s a bunch of other references (especially from S7) I’m sure you already figured out. As for the fairy tale elements, Clara lets down the lift like Rapunzel let’s down her hair, and the lift being destroyed ends up being essential to Mother Rassilon’s defeat as is Rapunzel’s hair being cut in the original story. Clara’s tears bringing the Doctor back is also from the original fairy tale, because Rapunzel’s tears healed the prince. Though Tangled did that too. Actually, Tangled pretty much did the whole glowing, golden Time Lord regeneration thing.</p><p>4) This is my 11th Doctor Who fic, my longest at over 11,000 words, and features the 11th Doctor, so that all ended up working nicely. This fairy tale retelling series isn’t finished yet, so you can subscribe to the series or to my Ao3 if you want to be notified when I post another one. Comments are also appreciated, and by that I mean deeply treasured. If you like what I wrote and are on Tumblr, come find me (username: clara-oswin-oswald). I can usually be found screaming about Whouffle and, of course, fairy tales.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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